Yes. And no. She’d healed. But she’d been in his arms, had taken sustenance. So very intimate. And with him.

She risked a glance and found Talent stone-faced as usual. Only his eyes held any curiosity.

“I’ve never heard of blood being able to heal,” she said.

Talent blinked. “It isn’t usual.” He looked away, and the weak alleyway light cast his face in shadows. “In truth, I don’t know of another’s blood that can.”

“How long have you known?”

His massive shoulder, now healed, lifted. “Long enough.” The corner of his mouth curled a touch, a secretive sort of smile. “You’ve heard of Ian Ranulf’s salve?”

Mary had. The ointment, made by Ian’s housekeeper, had extraordinary healing properties. Daisy went on and on about how it mended serious injuries so well. They’d used it on Winston Lane after a werewolf had attacked him.

At her nod, Talent’s smile twitched. “My blood is in it. Ian thinks Tuttle makes it. But I do. Tuttle won’t say a thing because the household reveres her for the skill.”

“Why haven’t you told Ian?”

Again his shoulder lifted. “Didn’t trust him in the beginning.”

Mary remembered her first days with Lucien. She’d feared letting anyone in. Feared that her good fortune would end, simply from the act of accepting another person’s care. She didn’t know what Talent’s early life had been like, but it could not have been any better than hers.

Talent’s voice grew flat and impersonal, his eyes on the cobbles beneath them. “Later… Well, I didn’t want to explain why I’d kept it a secret.”

She knew Jack Talent hated the idea of disappointing Ian Ranulf.

“And it’s not something I want anyone to know…” Talent stiffened, his expression hardening, and Mary realized that he hadn’t meant to voice that particular thought.

“By Adam’s touch, I swear that I won’t tell a soul.” As a GIM, it was the most sacred oath she could make.

He nodded awkwardly, then his attention abruptly turned to the corpses strewn about the narrow space. Mary hadn’t forgotten about them, precisely, but was glad to study them now. On shaking limbs she stood, and was almost up when Talent hauled her the rest of the way with a firm grasp at her elbow. He let her go immediately, brusque once more as he stepped closer to a crawler.

“Looks familiar, does he not?”

She glanced down at the crawler. “It’s Mr. Pierce.”

“Mmm.” Talent peered closely. “The real one. Or what’s bloody left of him.”

Pierce’s limbs were composed of both gold and flesh. The flesh was rotting and falling away in places, giving off a horrible stench.

“I understand shifters have an exceptional rate of regeneration, Master Talent; do you not find it odd that, although he was a shifter, Mr. Pierce is in such an advanced state of decay?”

“Yes,” said Talent grimly. “Something has been done to him. A shifter’s body ought to reject the application of false limbs. We can regrow ours, after all.”

“Curious.”

Talent turned toward the other crawler. “Now this fellow I don’t know.”

His body had been mutilated. Crude metal legs, an iron-forged false fist—which was what had smashed her face—an iron clockwork heart that looked wrong when compared with the GIM’s elegant devices. His flesh was grey and decaying about the edges of his limbs.

His torso was made entirely from iron, and coals glowed dimly at the bottom of his rib cage. He’d been the one to breathe fire upon them. The memory had Mary looking Talent over again. “What happened to your… wings?” The huge wings had been leathery like a bat’s but had the graceful shape of an angel’s.

Talent gave a small start. “Went away.” He attempted a lighthearted look but it didn’t quite work. Bemusement flickered in his eyes, as if he hadn’t expected wings to sprout from his back either.

“The only beings I know of with wings,” Mary said, “are primus demons and fallens.”

Primus were said to be the first demons created, born from the collective thoughts of mankind. Fallens were angels who had chosen to live among men, and thus were cast out of heaven. They were rare as a diamond in the sand; no one in recent memory had seen a fallen in the flesh.

Talent’s green eyes looked straight at her then, and a wry smile tugged at his mouth. “Where do you think a shifter comes from, Mistress Chase?”

He had her there. Onus, the offspring of primus and human beings, included weaker demons and shifters. Most onus were many times removed from their primus forefathers. Mary pursed her lips. And his grin grew. “Your father must have been an exceptionally strong onus.”

The light in his eyes dimmed. “My father, whoever he was, was pure primus.”

At her shocked look, he shook his head slightly. “The ignorance, really…” Talent leaned slightly into her space. “The reason there are so few shifters in the world is that we are the direct get of a primus.”

Primus themselves being rare and not inclined to mingle with others.

“You… you don’t know who your natural father is?”

His jaw hardened. “Nor do I want to. Now”—he bent down, and with impressive strength hauled one crawler over his shoulder before grabbing hold of the other—“let’s stop flapping chaps and get these back to headquarters. Grab the hearts, will you.”

Hefting both unwieldy crawlers like sacks of grain, Talent strolled out of the alleyway, leaving Mary to follow.

Chapter Eight

The devil often hid in plain sight. No one knew this better than Jack. After he dropped the shadow crawlers’ bodies off at headquarters the next morning, he headed out. Time was short—Chase would be meeting him soon—but he could not put off this particular task. Nor did he want to.

Blood boiling and teeth set, he took the stairs leading up to the honorable Mr. William Cavendish’s Belgravia town house two at a time. The black lacquered door was little impediment to his rage. One swift kick and it flew open, the sound of splintering wood and the clanging brass knocker giving him a short satisfaction.

A footman yelped, jumping to attention after his delayed shock. “Hold! Stop—”

One punch to the man’s jaw and he fell like a sack. Jack shook out his hand and kept going, heading past the vivid display of red hothouse roses and toward the sound of titters. Female and slightly alarmed. Behind him other servants scurried, the hushed plea of “Ring for the constable” coming from one of them. They needn’t bother. He would not be here by the time the bobbies arrived.

Wrenching open the tall double doors that led to the parlor, Jack took in the sight. A gaggle of women, feathered in silk ruffles and plumes of satin bustles. They scattered upon his entrance, squawking and flapping their arms in fright. One proper miss swooned. But the eldest stayed seated, her eyes alight with impotent rage. He grinned at her, showing his teeth, a promise that fangs would soon descend. Her iron-grey curls and the soft wattle of flesh at her neck trembled.

She tilted her chin when he bent over her. “Mrs. Cavendish.” His hand clasped her neck, claws digging in enough to hurt, if not draw blood, and a chorus of feminine screams erupted once more. Jack leaned in and spoke against her ear. “Take me to him now or I’ll snap your neck and smear your fetid blood over this white silk davenport.”

Their eyes met, and a flash of yellow sparked across her irises. He’d expected that, but not the powdery scent of gardenias that choked his nose. That particular cloying scent, mixed with stale demon, was familiar. His insides went ice-cold before raging to hot. Over the years many demons had pretended to be the elder Mrs. Cavendish. Most of them had been harmless. But not this one. It was all he could do to refrain from acting on his threat. He gave a squeeze to convey the direction of his thoughts, and she gurgled before wrenching away with a strength no human would ever possess.

“Ladies, do be calm.” The old hen clapped her hands like a governess calling for order. “This is a simple misunderstanding. Go on with your tea. I shall only be a moment.”

None of the women believed her, but, for the English, order was more important than logic, and so they quieted as Jack and Mrs. Cavendish left the room.

Out in the hall, scurrying servants halted when they spied their mistress walking with Jack. “Close that door,” she snapped at a gaping footman. “And go about your business.”

“Mum,” began the butler.

“It is nothing,” she hissed through yellowed teeth. “Do you understand?”

Her small frame vibrated with fury as she led Jack farther into the house. Once in the library, she went to a set of tall bookshelves and yanked out a frayed copy of Pride and Prejudice. With a creaking groan, the floorboards just before the shelves lowered, revealing a set of stairs descending into darkness. Jack had to laugh. “Doesn’t someone always want to read that book?”

She practically snarled at him, her eyes now full-on yellow. “Not in this house.”

They spoke no more as they went down the stairs, but Jack was at the ready should the crone decide to attack.

“They will kill you for this,” she said.

At times, he’d rather they did. But now was not one of them. Not until he got his pound of flesh. Jack said nothing, but followed her deeper through the maze of small tunnels, lit here and there by hissing lamps. The weak light sent his shadow dancing against the rough stone walls, and the foul scent of kerosene and mildew filled his lungs.

She stopped at a wood door riveted with golden bolts and, after knocking once, punched a key code into the lock—one quite similar to those the SOS employed—and opened the door to reveal a cheery, bright room. Peach silk damask lined the walls, and heavy mahogany furniture supported the weight of three females and one male sitting around a dining table, illuminated by a brace of candles. The scent of cigar mingled with peat smoke. All eyes turned to Jack.

“Mr. Jack Talent to see you, sir,” Cavendish all but snapped. She turned to go, long nose in the air and prim lips pressed, when Jack caught her by the throat and hauled her close. She gaped at him, her fingers clawing at his hand as he pressed against her windpipe.

“You were there.” He never forgot their eyes, not a one. Or their stench.

Wrinkled flesh mottled, showing patches of grey against pasty white. “I never touched you.”

She hadn’t. They hadn’t let her because she was just a servant, the one who collected the pans before they overflowed with his blood. Jack’s sight went red, and he slammed her against the iron doorframe. Her head connected with a thwack before she went limp. He let her fall, a crumple of rose silk skirts and sprawled demon limbs. Rendered senseless, the form of Mrs. Cavendish disappeared and, in its place, a raptor demon lay. Jack stepped past it and into the room.

“You certainly make an entrance,” said Will Thorne, his arm draped across the back of his chair, his fanged smile curling in slight mockery.

Jack paused long enough to look the bastard in the eye, then let his knife fly. It embedded itself in Thorne’s shoulder with a thud, and the man flinched.

“Fuck all, Jack,” Thorne hissed as he wrenched the knife free. “You’re in a pisser of a mood.”

His playmates hadn’t moved, but the three women eyed Jack appreciatively. Will glanced at them. “Leave us.”

They obeyed without hesitation, walking past Jack as if he weren’t there. Their scent was pure human. Collecting the fallen demon as they went, the women quietly closed the door behind them.

Once they were gone, Jack rounded on Will. “You were to stay far away from me. Not stroll out and make a bloody introduction to my partner.”

“Your partner?” The evil little smile of his grew. “Come now, we both know she’s much more than that.” A speculative look gleamed in Thorne’s eyes. “I thought you vowed to keep away from Miss Chase. Make it your life’s work to antagonize her, whatnot.” He waved a hand for emphasis.

Jack tamped down a growl. “I’ve been forced to work with her. You, on the other hand, have no excuse.”

“What can I say?” Thorne shrugged, halting the movement with a wince as if he’d forgotten his injured shoulder. “I wanted to meet her. She appears in good health. For now.”

Hell. “She’s of no importance.”

“I cannot even begin to measure the magnitude of that lie, my brother.”

“I’m not your brother.”

“We were once as close as.” Will’s pale fists pressed into the arms of his chair as his icy eyes grew pure black. “And don’t you forget it.”

“How could I?” Even in the unlikely event that Jack managed to forget his past, William Thorne would be there to remind him.

“What do you want, Jack? You’ve interrupted my breakfast. And after the greeting I’ve just received, I’m not keen on inviting you to join me.”

Jack didn’t want to spend another moment in this place, or with Will. He could barely stand to look at the man, not after he’d seen the bruising along the necks of the women who’d been sitting there. Blood partners: willing donors who enjoyed being fed upon. Jack’s throat convulsed. The day he sat idle as another demon feasted on his blood fresh from the flesh was the day he severed his own spine.

Coals glowed red behind the heating stove’s black grate. “Give me the names of those who still live,” he said. “I want the ones who did the most damage. I want the bastard who took me.”